


Sober

by insanechayne



Series: Magical Song Based One-Shots [6]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Gen, One-Shot, Post-BDS 2, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanechayne/pseuds/insanechayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot written for the song Sober by Tool</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sober

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having a horrendous amount of trouble trying to write the current chapter of my novel, and I've been really feeling the urge to write a fanfic lately, so now here we have this.   
> The original song is by Tool, though I must be honest I've only heard the live, acoustic cover sung by Staind. But it's a great song regardless. I'm not sure the lyrics at the end worked as well as I hoped they would, but I'm not about to go and change things now.   
> I feel like there's something else to say here, but I don't know what it would be.  
> So anyway, enjoy.

_There's a shadow just behind me,_

_Shrouding every step I take,_

_Making every promise empty,_

_Pointing every finger at me._

_Waiting like a stalking butler_

_Who upon the finger rests._

_Murder now the path of "must we"_

_Just because the son has come._

 

The scent of blood hung heavy in the air around the brothers, the scarlet of it spattered across every visible surface. Another hit well done; flawless, just like all the others.

The twins gave each other one fluid nod, not speaking as they pulled the pennies from their pockets and placed them, one by one, over the eyes of the dead. They’d had no time to speak the prayer during the shootout, and so they linked hands and whispered the words now, their voices tangling in perfect unison; even their hushed tones sounded like a choir of angels.

Murphy and Connor looked up at each other at the same time, sharing a long gaze full of some odd form of unspoken longing.

Connor was taken aback by the look in Murphy’s eyes. The blue waters were filled with turmoil and sorrow, and something seemed to be raging just behind his pupils. Red rimmed those eyes, as if the poor boy was about to burst into tears at any second.

“Murph?” Connor said his name tentatively, keeping his voice low, as if any noise he made would cause his brother to shatter into a million pieces there on the hardwood floor.

Connor began to reach for Murphy, his hand raised as if to place it on his twin’s shoulder comfortingly, when Murphy suddenly flung himself at Connor. Murphy buried his face into his brother’s chest, his fingers gripping the fabric of Connor’s black sweater so tightly that he was sure it would rip. Choked sobs broke free from Murphy’s throat, the hot tears soaking through Connor’s thin sweater, and he knew that Murphy could feel it, too.

Something wasn’t right lately. They went on missions, faithful as puppy dogs, but no longer did Connor hear the voice of God filling his soul. Instead he heard accusations. The voices of the damned filled his ears now, making his every waking moment a living hell, and he wondered sometimes why God had abandoned him.

Hearing Murphy cry, feeling his grip tight as vice against his shirt, made him realize that Murphy had been dealing with the exact same problem. Connor wanted to comfort his brother in some way, but all he could think to do was wrap his arms around Murphy’s shaking form.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Connor.” The words were barely audible, but Connor heard them as if he’d spoken them himself.

“But God has called upon us, Murph. We can’t back out now, not when we’ve got a mission t’be fulfilled.” Connor rubbed his twin’s back soothingly, trying to calm his cries.

Murphy was quiet for a few minutes, finally having stopped sobbing. “S’not God’s mission anymore.” And then he pushed Connor so hard that he nearly fell into a pool of blood on the floor.

When Connor recovered from his almost fall Murphy’s back was to him. “What’re ye talkin’ about, Murphy? ‘Course it’s God’s mission. Who else’s would it be?” Connor could hear his voice rising angrily, his defenses coming up around him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to be harsh with Murphy, didn’t want to hurt his feelings any more than they were clearly already wounded, but the need to defend their actions, to defend their Lord, boiled to the surface and spilled over.

Murphy threw a glance over his shoulder, not enough to make eye contact, but Connor felt like he was glaring at him all the same. “Smecker was the one got us outta prison. Smecker was the one got us back ta work. His mission now, an’ we’re just followin’ his every word like a couple a’ lap dogs. But it’s wrong, Connor. This ain’t how we’re supposed t’do things anymore.”

“That’s not true, Murph.” But even as he said the words he knew that Murphy was right and he was wrong. God had no part in what they were doing now. Now they were killing for the thrill of it, for the money they made off the rich mobsters they gunned down.

They thought they were doing the right thing still, justifying everything they did by saying “we’re making the world a safer place.” But that wasn’t what was happening at all. They were just following Smecker’s orders now, killing who he wanted them to kill rather than who God wanted them to kill, and it was coming back to haunt them.

Connor had known that all along, ever since the day they set foot outside that fucking prison, but he had ignored it. Now every time he went out his chest felt too tight, like his lungs were constricting, like his sternum was caving in on itself, and he knew, _he fucking knew_ , that this was not what the Lord expected of them now.

Maybe God had put them in that prison for a reason. Maybe He was trying to tell them that He no longer required their services, that He was done with whatever use He’d had for them. Didn’t Romans 8:28 say “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to _his_ purpose”? Going to jail had been a sign that they had fulfilled their duties, that God had other plans in mind for them, and that they were to stop their killings.

But they had ignored the Lord’s message. And now they were paying the price for it.

 _What have we done?_ Connor thought. He dropped to his knees in the pool of blood beneath him, not caring that it was soaking through his light blue jeans, not caring that if caught in those pants they would be considered evidence and he would be hauled back off to the slammer with Murphy by his side.

 

_I am just a worthless liar._

_I am just an imbecile._

_I will only complicate you._

_Trust in me and fall as well._

_I will work to elevate you_

_Just enough to bring you down._

Connor should have seen the signs, should have paid attention, should have listened when God had spoken. Now he had dragged Murphy down with him. His poor, innocent brother, always following his lead, and now he was destined to suffer just as much as Connor was. It was all Connor’s fault now, no one else’s, and Murphy shouldn’t be punished for his sins.

Connor wanted to go to Murphy, hug him tightly, and apologize so fervently that they would both somehow be absolved. But he couldn’t figure out how to stand anymore; he just knelt there, in the spilled scarlet, his eyes unseeing, and wrapped his arms around himself as tightly as he possibly could. He didn’t deserve Murphy’s comfort now, not after he’d fucked things up so badly.

Tears fell down his cheeks in waterfalls, but no sound left his lips. He had to keep it inside, because he didn’t deserve to be grieving, or worried, and he certainly didn’t deserve to be feeling any form of self-pity.

Murphy walked calmly over to his twin, two bottles of unlabeled liquor in his hands, and sat down beside Connor, the blood on the floor making a sickening sort of squelching sound as he did so. Without a word he opened both bottles and held one out to Connor, who stared at it in a sort of daze momentarily before he took it with a shaky hand.

Connor’s other arm was still pressed tightly against his torso, as if to hold him together, and he gulped down long swallows of the rich, auburn liquid, relishing the fire that trailed down his throat and through his body along with it.

“Yer right, Murph. I knew it all along, just didn’t obey. Didn’t mean ta drag ye down with me, I just…” Connor’s sentence trailed off and he shook his head, taking another swig from the bottle.

“S’alright, Conn. I chose to follow ye down this road; ‘m just as much t’blame as you are.” Murphy reached over and squeezed his brother’s shoulder roughly. “I didn’t want our days as the Saints t’be over yet either, brother.”

Connor lifted his eyes to Murphy’s, saw the sincerity in them, and let himself cry once more. Of course Murphy couldn’t just let him take the fall alone, couldn’t just let him admit his faults and cop the blame. Murphy always had to keep them equal, whether the situation was good or bad, because the thought of them being anything but was too horrible to bear.

“What’re we supposed to do now, Murph?” Connor asked. For the first time in his life he didn’t have a plan to follow through with; his mind was utterly blank, devoid of everything but guilt, shame, and remorse.

“I think ye know the answer ‘s’well ‘s I do, Conn.” Murphy set his bottle down gently on the floor beside him and leaned over to scoop up the guns they had dropped.

Murphy grabbed the two Desert Eagles closest to him and handed one to Connor, just as he had with the liquor bottles. A soft smile shone on his face as he gripped the piece tightly in his fingers, his index immediately going to the trigger and fitting snugly there, as if that’s where it had always belonged.

Realization hit Connor like a ton of bricks, and he was instantly filled with soothing peace. His fingers wrapped around the weapon, and he felt like it was practically an extension of himself.

Only blood could wash away blood. A life for a life. Their recompense and repentance all wrapped up on one bullet.

“God’s callin’ us home, Connor.”

Connor nodded. It was all so clear now. He leaned forward and kissed Murphy flush on the lips, not bothering to cover his brother’s mouth with his hand. They were going to die anyway, so what did it matter? He kissed his twin with nothing but brotherly love, his intentions completely pure, and pulled away after a few brief seconds.

Murphy smiled at his twin once more, then raised his bottle as to make a toast. “To all that we have done in the name of our Lord, to the glorious purpose that we have fulfilled, and to getting blind drunk before we enter the gates of Heaven.”

Connor picked up his own bottle and clinked it against Murphy’s. “Amen to that, brother.”

 

_Why can't we not be sober?_

_Just want to start things over._

_Why can't we sleep forever?_

_I just want to start this over._


End file.
